you're the northern wind
by queenoftheashes
Summary: "I'm glad you found your way back north, Lady Stark." Sandor said, his voice a soft rasp above the rising winds swirling around the two of them. Sansa/Sandor, 8x01 and beyond. Rating may change in later chapters.
1. a reappearance

you're the northern wind

The clouds hung low and dark in the sky, casting a pallor over all of Winterfell that only the scarlet weirwood tree managed to distinguish itself from. While there was little else to hear other than the marching of countless soldiers, the air hummed with an air of expectancy, and Sansa could feel the restlessness in the courtyard below as she waited for the army to reach the castle. Suddenly, two dark figures appeared on the misty horizon, casting great shadows across the snow-covered ground as the pierced the air with screeches that sent a chill down her spine in a way that northern wind had never been able to.

Sansa heard the gasps and exclamations from those on the wall and those below, some fearful and some awestruck, and wondered if it had been wise of this new queen to put on such a display for her introduction to the north. Certainly no one would think to oppose her after seeing the two fully-grown dragons that circled above Winterfell, but the mistrustfulness northerners were predisposed to was only going to be worsened by the sight of creatures everyone was sure had passed into legend, kept alive only by stories told by septas and in songs drunkenly sang in taverns.

She was sure Arya was just as excited to see the dragons as she was to reunite with their brother, Jon, and the corner of her mouth curved up slightly as she imagined her younger sister perched somewhere about the castle, looking on in wonder. Arya had vanished as soon as the first glimpse of the army had appeared, leaving Sansa to deal with the business of welcoming Jon's new queen, advisors, and extensive military, to the castle. Bran was there too of course, though that hardly mattered given his courtesies would likely be limited to a quiet, unsettling look in the direction of the new arrivals to the castle.

Sighing, Sansa made her way down to the courtyard to stand beside her brother, with Brienne and Podrick just behind her, and did her best not to look as nervous as she felt as she awaited her elder brother's arrival. Just the sight of all those men marching towards her home had put a knot in her stomach as she wondered how the provisions they had taken such care at stowing for the winter would feed that many mouths, especially with two fully grown dragons to account for. She doubted the creatures would be very satisfied with loaves of dark bread and bowls of mutton stew.

Pushing her concerns aside, she straightened her back and raised her chin, hoping to obtain some small measure of regality despite the writhing knots of dread in her stomach. Her heart surged as Jon arrived through the gate, followed closely by the silver-haired queen, who hung back slightly as Jon dismounted and ran to Bran, dropping to his knees to place a kiss to his younger brother's brow. Sansa watched their exchange closely, her small smile becoming more of a grimace as she saw Jon's brow furrow in confusion at the change that had come over Bran, at the emotionless way he stared out across the courtyard, seeming to see both everything and nothing. Raising himself back up, Jon embraced her, though she barely felt it as she looked toward the queen.

Clad in white furs, with her pale hair and skin, she seemed to absorb all the light in the courtyard like a sliver of moonlight in an otherwise dark night. The young queen smiled at her as Jon made introductions, yet Sansa noted it did not make its way to her eyes. Perhaps she noticed the unspoken dissent emanating from the crowd gathered to greet them, or perhaps she could tell that Sansa had no warmth for her either, but her claims of the beauty of the north and of Sansa rang hollow, practiced niceties that reminded Sansa of all the careful little lies she used to recite in Kings Landing.

"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace." Sansa told her, making no effort to muster a smile of her own.

Daenerys seemed to falter at that, and Sansa was uncharitably glad of it. She had an increasingly low tolerance for the sort of behavior she had learned to survive with in the capital now that she was home and surrounded by the blunt honesty of northerners.

"We don't have time for all this." Bran said, his voice as emotionless as ever. "The Night King has your dragon. He's one of them now. The wall has fallen, the dead march south."

Sansa felt her breath hitch as she looked at Jon, and felt her blood go cold as she saw the unmasked fear in his eyes.

"I will call for our bannermen to retreat to Winterfell at once and to bring their people with them. Let us reconvene in the great hall to discuss our plans further after you have been shown to your rooms. I know you all must be weary after your journey." Sansa said, and Jon nodded, offering her what he likely thought to be a reassuring smile.

She wasn't the one that needed reassurance, judging by the terror she had seen flash across his face just moments before, but she allowed him to think it had worked. Turning her gaze to the assembly of close advisors Jon and Daenerys had brought inside the castle gates with them, she nodded in acknowledgment at Tyrion and Varys, her gaze coming to rest on a familiar figure in the back, towering above the others.

Sandor Clegane stood as tall and imposing as when he had first come to Winterfell seven years before. Even without the fierce helm he had once worn and lacking any armor beyond a studded leather jerkin over his travel-worn tunic, he looked as formidable a warrior as she remembered. Only now, there was no blood obscuring his face, no wild look of desperation as there had been the night the Blackwater burned. Several errant strands of lank brown hair hung across the right side of his face, yet not enough to cover the intricate web of scars she used to try so hard to avoid staring at. As his dark gaze shifted up, she caught his eye and felt the knots in her stomach begin to twist again.

Brienne had told her that that he would be coming to Winterfell, amongst others, and she hadn't thought too much of it at the time. But seeing him again in the flesh was a painful, visceral reminder of her time in Kings Landing, and though he had acted as a balm to quell the hurt and humiliation she had suffered at Joffrey's hands on many occasions, she could not escape the growing despair she felt at seeing him here, in her home. He and Tyrion were the only ones who had seen firsthand what pain and shame she had been subjected to and to stand before him as Lady of Winterfell made her feel like a pretender after him seeing what a stupid, naive girl she had been in the capital. She wondered if he saw her that way still. He seemed to notice her distress, and averted his eyes, retreating further into the assembly as she let out a breath she hadn't realized she had been holding and turned to Brienne.

"Are you alright, my lady?" Brienne asked quietly, her eyes searching Sansa's face worriedly.

"Yes. I'm fine." Sansa replied, offering a tight smile that seemed to placate her sworn shield.

There were dragons soaring above her, an army of dead marching toward her, and the ever -present threat of Cersei's wrath looming just behind her. She was most definitely not fine, about as far from it as could be. Yet as she set off toward the great hall, she realized that of all the threats that loomed on the horizon, none had shaken her in the way that the reappearance Sandor Clegane had.


	2. savior of the seven bloody kingdoms

The days after Jon's arrival passed swiftly, with little time for Sansa to do much but oversee the preparations for the battle and to ensure that everyone was being fed and housed as best as Winterfell could accommodate. Thankfully, Daenerys and her army had brought with them enough provisions to satisfy the demand for the time being but Sansa still worried over the hardship it would pose when they did eventually run out. The dragons sought their own food; skimming across the fields to seize terrified livestock before returning to the nest they had created of discarded bones.

Though she was sure some of them would insist against it, Sansa had made arrangements for all the men that had journeyed beyond the wall with Jon to be given the best guest rooms Winterfell had to offer. Though still modest in comparison to some of the rooms she had seen in Kings Landing, she had personally seen to it that each was well equipped with all the comforts a man could want for after a long journey. Sandor's room she had chosen carefully for its placement above a concentrated network of tributaries, ensuring the warm water kept the room temperate without the need for a fire and hoped he was able to take this small token of her appreciation in the role he had played returning two of her siblings safely to her.

Sansa was beginning to wonder if he had even ventured into his room since his arrival with how much time he spent in the training yard, sparring with Brienne, Arya, and any soldiers brave enough to face him. He moved with just as much ferocity as she remembered, but rather than handily defeating his training partners and moving to the next in line, she saw him point out an error that had cost them the fight and how to correct it for the next time. She was sure that each instruction was accompanied by plentiful insults towards their abilities, but even so she was thankful for his efforts. Many of these men were inexperienced in battle and could use all the practice they could get. Even Arya, with all her mysteriously acquired knowledge, seemed to respect his teachings.

She knew it was pointless to ruminate on how differently everything might have gone had she just taken Sandor's offer to bring her home so many years ago, but she had still permitted herself to wallow in thoughts of what could have been from time to time. This was one of those times, her chest tightening as she watched the two of them spar, a familiarity between them that she yearned to be a part of. But she wasn't. She would never be a great fighter like either of them, and though Arya had told her how strong she was to survive everything she had been through since first leaving Winterfell, she knew the resilience she had built up over the years couldn't help her on the battlefield.

"Ha!" Arya's voice rang out across the training yard, and Sansa looked down to see Arya's dagger within an inch of Sandor's neck, a smug grin on her face.

"I hope you don't plan on stopping to gloat during the actual battle," he growled, swatting the dagger away with one hand as he glared at her.

"No. I'll be too busy saving you," Arya replied, sheathing the dagger, causing him to let out a skeptical snort.

"Best me once in the training yards and suddenly you're the savior of the seven bloody kingdoms," he said, to which Arya took a small bow.

Sandor's stormy expression didn't change, but Sansa was sure she saw a flicker of pride in his dark eyes as he watched Arya head off. Before she even realized what she was doing, Sansa had made her way down to the training yard, finding herself curiously short of breath as she approached him. He looked up, a slight crease between his heavy brows, and bowed his head toward her.

"You taught her well," Sansa said, offering him a slight smile.

"She didn't learn all that from me," Sandor replied, a barely discernable note of admiration in his raspy voice. "My lady." He added after a moment, looking somewhat abashed.

"Strange to hear you call me that. Last time we spoke I was still little bird." She murmured, feeling herself flush slightly as she recalled his old name for her.

"Well, that's not you anymore," he muttered.

"And you're not the Hound anymore either," Sansa said.

"No, I'm not." Sandor replied, and there was an air of finality to it.

"What are we now then?" Sansa asked, and he scoffed.

"Just two people about to fight a battle we can never hope to win," he said.

"Even so, I'm glad you're here. We stand a much better chance with you on our side." Sansa told him earnestly, and he let out a self-deprecating bark of laughter.

"Yes, I'm sure you feel much safer knowing a man who has been bested by not one, but now _two_ women is fighting for you," he said, but she heard the levity in his voice.

"Brienne is undoubtedly a formidable opponent," Sansa allowed, though she knew that he had been wounded prior to their fight and wondered if her sworn shield would have been able to best him under fairer circumstances.

"Aye. I've still got the scars to prove it," Sandor grimaced.

"And Arya seems to be improving by the day," she observed, "thanks in part to your tutelage."

"She's a good fighter. She might just grow up to become one of the best in all of bloody Westeros, if she keeps her fucking wits about her." Sandor said gruffly, making no effort to hide his pride this time. "Apologies, my lady," he added, as an afterthought.

"What for?" Sansa asked.

"I shouldn't be using such words in the presence of a lady. It's been some time since I had any use for courtesies, you'll excuse me if I've forgotten them," Sandor replied, looking only slightly apologetic.

"You don't have any qualms about using words like that in front of Arya," Sansa said, smiling slightly.

"Well, she's not the bloody Lady of Winterfell, is she?" he muttered, rolling his eyes slightly.

"I may not be as strong as Arya, but I promise I can withstand even your choicest words," Sansa told him, surprised to hear a teasing note in her voice.

He looked at her, surprised, and then one corner of his mouth curved up into a smile so brief she almost wondered if she had imagined it.

"You're just as strong as Arya, though maybe in a different way. The things you've survived...not many people could." He said quietly, and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

"The same could be said of you." Sansa replied eventually, though many other words clamored to be said.

He looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes searching her face as if he was trying to divine the contents of her very jumbled mind.

"I'm glad you found your way back north, Lady Stark." Sandor said, his voice a soft rasp above the rising winds swirling around the two of them.

He bowed his head toward her once more, and then turned and strode away, leaving her standing alone in the courtyard. She felt her throat constrict, and pulled her cloak closer to herself as if to mimic an embrace. As she made her way back to the castle, a single thought rang out over and over in her mind.

_I'm glad you did, too._


	3. stick 'em with the pointy end

you're the northern wind

The unnerving quiet that seemed to stifle the castle over the last few days was not unfamiliar to Sansa, though it was different this time. Unlike the night she had spent in Maegor's Holdfast with Cersei and the noblewomen of King's Landing, she was afraid for more than just herself now. She was afraid for Arya, for Bran, for Jon, for Brienne, for Theon, for the northmen. _For Sandor_ she acknowledged, though he was the only one who seemed unperturbed by the approaching army of the dead.

If he was worried, it certainly didn't show on the stoic expression he wore every time she passed him in the castle or on the grounds. Sometimes he nodded slightly in her direction, and other times she felt she might as well have been a scullery maid for how little his demeanor changed as he strode past her. She often wondered if she had exaggerated the tenuous bond they had formed in King's Landing, for he seemed thoroughly unaffected by her presence when she felt her heart drumming against her chest whenever she saw him, felt her breath catch in her throat.

It felt almost reflexive, that she should react this way to him. After all, the only times she had seen him in their shared past were times she had been afraid, awaiting one of Joffrey's cruel punishments or trying to avoid being ensnared by one of Cersei's traps, hidden in her carefully practiced niceties. But this felt like a different type of fear, akin to how she felt when she looked at Arya or Bran or Jon or Theon. Like she was afraid that they would all be taken from her again and sometimes she wanted to cry from the weight of that unbearable possibility.

Now, as she stood with Arya looking out over the ranks of Unsullied and mass of Dothraki, she wished that she knew how to fight. She was terrified of what awaited them, but she didn't want to hide inside the crypts like a coward while everyone she cared for was out here. If they were all to die tonight, she wanted to die next to her brothers and sisters, and all those that were giving their lives to defend the north.

They said nothing as they stood side by side, watching as the Dothraki charged into the darkness with their swords ablaze, their war cries echoing in the night and felt her heart seize up as she watched each light go out like candles in a drafty hall.

"Get to the crypts," Arya whispered, and when Sansa turned to her, she saw her sister's face was pale even in the warm glow cast by the torches.

"What about you? I can't lose you again!" Sansa told her, and she felt a sob welling up even as she fought to suppress it.

"You won't. Take this," Arya replied, and thrust a dagger toward her.

"I don't know how to use it!" Sansa said, and hated herself for how weak she sounded.

"Stick 'em with the pointy end," Arya said, offering her a small smile.

Sansa took it, hating that her little sister was comforting her when she was the one in danger and Sansa was abandoning the fight to go hide with all the others too young or too feeble to wield a weapon. Steeling herself, she tightened her grip on the handle of the blade and turned to make her way to the crypts, blinking back tears even as she made her way down the stairs to where Tyrion awaited her.

She saw the question in his eyes and shook her head imperceptibly, her throat too raw to speak. His face fell slightly, shoulders slumping forward, and he took a long drought from his wineskin as she tried to find a quiet corner away from the searching looks of the northerners. Varys murmured something about how convenient it was that they were already in a crypt and she scoffed ever so slightly, her mouth twisting bitterly. She remembered the hymn she had sung in Maegor's Holdfast and wished she could gather the courage to bring solace to her people the same way she had once brought it to the people of King's Landing, but she knew such gestures would do little for northerners. They had endured too many hardships to be comforted by stories and songs, and so had she.

"Do you ever wonder how things might have turned out if we had stayed married?" Tyrion asked, taking another long sip from his wineskin.

Sansa snorted derisively in what she was sure was a very un-lady like way.

"It would never have worked between us," she replied.

"Why not? I think we make quite a good match," he said.

"Ideally, any husband of mine would be loyal to the north and the north _alone_," Sansa said, unable to keep the edge from her voice.

"I'm here, fighting for the north," Tyrion told her, and his voice had lost all humor. "Or trying to, at least."

"You aren't here out of loyalty to me, you're here out of loyalty to _your_ _queen_. A queen that would take the north away from those it belongs to, yet again." Sansa hissed.

Tyrion was about to retort when the dragon queen's handmaiden and advisor, Missandei, stepped toward them.

"If it wasn't for _our_ queen, we'd all be dead already." Missandei said, and her eyes flashed angrily

Sansa held her gaze evenly, though she felt a slight flush of shame at the truth in Missandei's words. Sansa knew that she didn't belong in the fray and knew she would only encumber whoever tried to help her, but that didn't stop her from wishing yet again that she knew how to fight. She knew the northerners were loyal to her, but would that loyalty hold when they saw that she could never protect them in the way that the dragon queen could? There was no way the northern armies alone could have defended Winterfell. All their forces put together still might not be enough to.

A hoarse scream pierced the air, and all heads immediately turned toward the door leading down to the crypts.

"Open the door!" the soldier pleaded, and Sansa clenched her jaw, knowing there was nothing she could do to help him.

A cacophony of voices joined in, begging for entry. One by one, they turned into screams of fear and agony before all went silent once more. Sansa couldn't tell how long she stood there, her breath so shallow it was barely there, fingers clutching at the handle of her dagger. Then, through the silence, the clattering of stones crumbling onto the floor. Not from above them, but beside them. A skeletal hand reached through the fissure in the tomb, which spread with each second until a corpse clad in tattered cloth and the remnants of chainmail fell to the floor. Sansa looked on in horror as it began to writhe about on the flagstones before raising itself up to full height, and started as Tyrion grabbed her free hand.

"Run!" he gasped, and she turned away as the sound of the dead falling to the ground echoed throughout the chamber.

Tyrion pulled her behind a solitary tomb that lay in one of the many ventricles of the crypts, and she felt herself shaking as she listened to the screams of the dying all around them. She knew they couldn't stay here; they had precious moments until the dead found them hidden away, but there were only so many ways to get out. One lead back into the castle, and surely to death. One lead to the godswood, where there would be no safety with only Theon and the Ironborn stationed to protect Bran. And the last lead to the East Gate, where they could escape to Winter Town and the Kings Road but they would never make it far with the dead in pursuit and no weapons with which to defend themselves.

It was the only way that they might survive, if they could escape the dead and find somewhere to seal themselves away until the fighting was over. Sansa knew there was not even a glimmer of a chance they would make it, but she couldn't die without trying when everyone she loved was up there, fighting so that she would be safe. She turned to Tyrion and nodded at him, hand clenching his as he lifted it to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Though he was not a knight or a warrior either, she knew he had always done his best to keep her safe and she was thankful he was beside her now. There were far worse people to die in the company of. She smiled at him, offering him all the courage she could muster, and they rose together, racing down toward the main corridor.

As they rounded the corner, a wight skittered toward them, its movements erratic as it snapped its jaw open and shut. Sansa screamed as it reached for her, skeletal fingers clawing at the front of her dress, and kicked at it with a terrified sob, succeeding in bringing the skeletal creature to its knees. _Stick 'em with the pointy end_ she heard Arya say, and brought the dagger crashing down into the yellowed skull of the wight, which immediately crumpled to the floor in a heap of bones and chainmail.

They kept moving, leaping over the bodies of the fallen, and Sansa gripped the dagger so hard she marveled that it didn't shatter in her palm. Out of the corner of her eye she saw another wight running toward them, and with a yell Tyrion grabbed a sword that lay discarded on the floor and struck it in the chest. It staggered backwards and then lunged again, pushing Tyrion to the ground and falling atop of him, its jaw clicking furiously as it bit toward his neck.

"No!" Sansa screamed, and shoved the undead soldier off of Tyrion, who scrambled to his feet and struck it again before Sansa grabbed a torch off the cavern wall and thrust it into the gaping maw of the wight.

They had lost too much ground, and she could hear them right behind her now, the smoke from the wight clouding her vision and burning in her throat as she wheeled around, sweeping the dagger left and right as she choked back her sobs. She was going to die down here, with the statues of all the Starks before her watching as she was torn apart by skeletons. Sansa blinked the tears and the ash out of her eyes and grabbed the torch from the body of the blackened wight on the ground beside her and steeled herself as she watched the dead careen toward her, a frenzied mass of bones and armor and swords they dragged across the flagstones with a horrible screech.

And then, just as she raised her torch to meet them, they began to fall to the ground, piling atop one another like bodies on a funeral pyre. A skull dislodged itself from the mass, rolling across the floor and came to rest at her feet, empty sockets looking up at her. Sansa raised her boot and stepped down, the skull dissolving into dust with the slightest bit of pressure. She looked to Tyrion, whose tears streaked through the ash and dirt on his face, and collapsed to her knees, the torch clattering to the ground beside her as she sobbed soundlessly. The crypt had gone quiet, and she listened to the crackle of the dying flames and her ragged breathing as she clung to Tyrion's arm, burying her face in the crook of his elbow.

"It's over." He whispered, not sounding quite sure that he believed himself.

_It's over. It's over. It's over_.

She repeated it to herself until it drowned out everything else.


	4. things that would never be

you're the northern wind 4

Sansa was the first to leave the crypts, dagger still clutched tightly in her fist as she drew a shaky breath at the sight that greeted her in the courtyard. Everywhere she looked lay masses of bodies tangled together like tree roots, distinguishable only by their armor in the pale light of the morning sun. She walked amongst them in a daze, the edges of her vision blurred by tears that she resisted as well as she could, until she saw Jon and Arya coming toward her, and let out a sob of relief.

"Sansa!" Arya shouted, running to her and enveloping her in a hug.

"You're alive," Sansa whispered, gripping the back of her sister's cloak like she was about to slip away. "Bran?" she asked, panic rising again as she scanned the courtyard for him.

"Alive. Safe. He's inside, we have to start rounding up all the able bodied men and begin moving the bodies outside the castle walls." Arya told her, her voice raw, as Sansa turned to Jon.

He looked at her mournfully and her heart sank. She knew who had been protecting Bran in the godswood. Part of her wished she could convey that she already knew what had happened, that there was no need for Jon to tell her. But the words died in her throat and she squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to force her tears back, too numb to feel their usual sting.

"Sansa, I'm so sorry," Jon said thickly, pulling her toward him.

"I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner," Arya told her, an edge of guilt to her voice.

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked.

"The Night King. I killed him. But I didn't get to him quickly enough. If I had, Theon might still be alive." Arya replied bitterly.

"If it wasn't for you, many more would have died. Thousands, at least." Jon said, squeezing Arya's shoulder in an attempt to console her. "I have to go help the men." He added, nodding to both of them before striding off in the direction of the north gate.

Sansa knew he was right, but the way he said it made it sound as though he felt Theon's life was a fitting trade for thousands of others, and something ugly within her wanted to tell Jon she would have gladly given The Night King his queen and all of her armies in exchange for Theon. She bit the hateful words back, and tried to regain some composure as she offered Arya a meager smile.

"He's right," Sansa said softly. "You did so well."

"I'm sorry I couldn't save him." Arya told her.

"You saved all of us. And if Theon could choose all over again, I think he would have gone with Bran all the same." Sansa replied, and Arya nodded solemnly, her dark eyes shining with unshed tears.

Several men walked past them, their shoulders slumped from weariness as they struggled to carry the body of a fallen northerner towards the gate, joining a procession of soldiers and corpses. Sansa wished they could allow them to rest and regain their strength before starting the grueling process of purging Winterfell of the dead, but she knew that allowing the remains to linger could expose the living to disease and they could not afford to lose anyone else. As she looked on, a familiar figure joined the mass, the body of another man slung across his back.

"He saved me from those things. He and Beric both did." Arya told her hollowly, watching as Sandor forged ahead toward the gate, his mouth set in a grim line.

Sansa wondered if the blood covering his face was his, or belonged to someone else. He was limping slightly, though he still moved as purposefully as ever.

"He's hurt," Sansa said softly, fighting a strange impulse to follow him.

"He's survived much worse," Arya replied, but the edge of worry in her voice belied her words and Sansa wondered what else he had endured between leaving King's Landing and coming back to Winterfell so many years later.

The remaining soldiers made relatively short work of constructing pyres for those who had fallen in battle. The skeletal remains of the wights were carted to the outskirts of the Wolfswood and burned unceremoniously, their ashes soon indistinguishable from the snow that fell softly on those assembled outside the castle walls. Sansa's lip trembled as she gazed down at Theon, tucking her direwolf pin into his armor as the tears began to fall freely down her cheeks.

Turning away, she took her place beside Arya and focused on the tree line, struggling to keep her composure as Jon's voice rang out above the winds whistling through the pyres, rustling the brush that lay beneath the bodies of the dead. As he spoke of their sacrifice and bravery, Sansa wished she had taken the time to say goodbye to Theon before the battle. She had thought that maybe if she pretended that she would see him again when it was all over, that she really would. But now she would never get a chance to fully thank him for saving her life, or for protecting Bran, or to see what could have bloomed between them given proper time and care.

Sansa had always loved Theon as a brother, then as her protector and savior from Ramsay, but her heart had never asked for more than that from him. She thought she could learn to love him in the way that her mother and father had loved each other though; maybe not a fiery, passionate love, not a love that burned through her but a quiet, trusting, enduring love that could have acted as a balm to both their worn and battered spirits. After all they had both been through, she thought the understanding and solace they could find in each other's arms might have been better than any great, sprawling romance she had once read about in books.

Whatever it could have been, it was gone now. Taking the torch that was offered to her, Sansa held it to the brush until flames began to dance beneath Theon, her eyes stinging with tears and rising smoke. As she rejoined her family, Ghost let out a mournful whine, pushing his head up under her hand as he tried to console her and she threaded her fingers through his white fur, her heart suddenly aching for Lady, then for her father, her mother, for Robb, and Rickon, and for all those she had lost since the last time she had stood in the company of those surrounding her now.

Eventually the plumes of dark smoke began to overwhelm them, and they somberly retreated to the great hall where Sansa had spent a majority of the day overseeing preparations for their victory feast. She was not in much of a feasting mood, but she knew it would not do as Lady of Winterfell to fail to provide for all those who had fought so bravely defending the north. The soldiers required heartier sustenance than the crusty bread and thin stew they had doled out earlier in the day, and everyone was in dire need of a drink.

As the wine and ale began to flow freely, grim silence turned to loud laughter and snippets of songs broke out about the hall as various toasts were made to the dead and the living. Sansa wondered if she was supposed to be making one, but decided she could excuse herself from courtesies for the evening. After all, Jon and Daenerys had both made rousing speeches to those gathered around the long wooden tables, met with raucous cheers and applause, and Sansa didn't think she could summon the will to say anything more than they already had.

As the night wore on, Sansa found herself sipping a great deal of wine in order to avoid making conversation with anyone. Bran was staring off into the distance as he often was, Jon was alternating between interacting with the wildlings and attempting to placate his queen, who sat off to the side, stony-faced and disengaged now that the men had all begun extolling Jon's many virtues. Arya had disappeared after the lighting of the pyres, and Sansa was about to go and look for her when she noticed Tormund's shock of red hair, his arm slung around Sandor's shoulders as Sandor grimaced into a tankard the size of Sansa's head. She watched in amusement as Tormund recounted what seemed to be a terribly sad tale before being interrupted by two serving girls, one of whom paired off with the red-haired wildling after a brief exchange. The other lingered, attempting to entice Sandor into joining her, and Sansa felt a strange flicker of annoyance stir within her.

Perhaps it was that she had no one else to keep her company, perhaps it was that she had imbibed slightly more wine than was advisable, but whatever the reason, Sansa found herself making her way to the table Sandor was seated at and fixing the serving girl with a pointed look. She turned one last time to Sandor, a beseeching expression on her comely face, and he responded with a feral snarl before immediately turning back to his tankard. As the girl skittered away, Sansa bit back a laugh and took another sip of wine, meeting Sandor's gaze over the rim of her cup.

"Used to be you couldn't look at me," Sandor rumbled, his dark eyes shining in the light of the candles as he watched her.

"That was a long time ago," Sansa replied. "I've seen much worse than you since then."

"Yes, I've heard." He told her, glowering.

His free hand closed into a fist as he took an angry sip of wine, slamming the large cup down on the table with such force some of his drink sloshed over the edge, seeping into the rough hewn surface like blood. When he met her eyes again, there was pain and regret etched into his face so plainly she almost felt indecent looking at him, seeing so much of him at once. She wanted to reassure him that it was alright, that she had survived, that she wasn't some frail little thing he needed to pity.

"He got what he deserved. I gave it to him." Sansa said.

"How?" Sandor asked.

"Hounds." Sansa replied coolly.

His eyes widened in surprise and he let out a coarse laugh, something akin to pride in his expression.

"You've changed, little bird." He said softly, and she gave him a sad smile.

"I had to. Or I never would have survived." She replied simply, and before she was fully conscious of what she was doing, reached across the table to take his large, rough hand in her own.

Sansa could have blamed the wine for such an uncharacteristic show of affection, especially with him, but she knew it was more than just that. Feeling his warm skin, her thumb brushing against his callused palm, it was like an anchor that kept her from slipping away into complete numbness after the events of the day.

"You survived because of who you are, not who those fucking cunts tried to turn you into. You've always been strong. And smart. That's why you're Lady of Winterfell now, and they're in the ground where they belong." Sandor told her.

Sansa smiled at him, squeezing his hand as their eyes met. It had been so long since she had been able to speak to anyone like this, uninhibited by all the courtesies and carefully measured words she had learned to use as her shield.

"You've changed, too. You're much kinder now." Sansa said, a teasing lilt to her voice that came easily to her, emboldened by this newly discovered closeness with him.

"I've become old and soft, is that it?" he scoffed, taking another swig of wine.

"You're just as fearsome as ever. Just not to me anymore." She answered, and his lip quirked up slightly.

"Then what am I to you, little bird?" he asked, and she felt her heart tug ever so slightly.

"You're one of us now. A northerner." Sansa said carefully, watching him closely. "You even look like one now, with your beard." She added, and he let out a snort of laughter.

He grew silent, and she studied him, taking in all the details of his face as she tried to commit it all to memory, knowing that it was unlikely that they would ever share a drink like this together again. This was just a by-product of the relief that they had lived through the battle, of too much wine, of reminiscing on times past and though she knew it would end all too soon, she wanted to remember every moment. After a beat, his shoulders seemed to slump downward slightly and when he met her gaze again, his dark eyes flickered with regret.

"I'm not staying." Sandor told her, and she felt the warmth that had washed over her just seconds before rapidly dissipate.

"You're going with Jon to King's Landing?" Sansa asked.

"Not with Jon, no. I don't intend to fight in any more fucking wars. But I have unfinished business of my own in the capital." He replied, and she stiffened, knowing he referred to his monster of a brother.

"Will you return?" she asked, her voice little more than a whisper, fearing she knew the answer already.

He was silent, seemingly searching for the right words to say as she watched him, feeling a sob welling up in her throat with every second that he didn't respond. After what seemed like an eternity, she nodded and let go of his hand, standing up so abruptly she knocked the wooden bench to the stone floor with a clang. Turning away before he could see the tears clinging to her eyelashes as she furiously tried to blink them away, Sansa exited the hall and didn't stop until she was safely sealed away within her rooms.

For the second time since the sun had risen that day, she wept for all the things that would never be.


End file.
